Unless the Black in his soul weighed him down to be gnawed on by the darklings.
As she washed the blood from her hands in the small stream meandering through the back of the camp, she felt eyes on her. Ust’s eyes. The source of her growing unease, that slippery writhe in her guts. The greasy, odious man bristled as he chewed on the thick Tethyrian root, his eyes bloodshot from the energizing herb. The brown liquid stained his beard, clumps of half-masticated pulp tangled in the wiry strands. He spat dark phlegm onto the blood-red grass.
“You done?” he growled. “Day’s wearing on.”
She glanced at the horizon. The sun was perhaps two hours from setting. Maybe three. “It’s almost over.”
He grunted.
Her jaw ached from where he’d struck her, tender and swollen with a bruise. She kept probing her teeth. They all felt firm. Her inner cheek flared with pain when she brushed the cut.
“Strap him to a horse and let’s go,” he growled.
“The wagon,” she insisted, her stomach tightening. She was so aware of Ust’s size. The foul Hook lurked nearby, always in the bandit chief’s shadow. “Unless you want him to die.”
“He’s worthless without his leg. Shoulda let him die.”
She shook her hands clean of the cold water, the beds of her fingernails stained rust. An insult hovered on the edge of her tongue, but she swallowed it. “We need the wagon anyways. Unless you plan on abandoning our property.”
While she and Dualayn worked on Carstin, the bandits had ransacked the tents. They had scattered all her clothing across the grass, her petticoats fluttering in the breeze, exposed to their dirty, pawing hands and leering gazes. Fresh anger poured through her like hot blood spurting from a wound.
“Not much worth taking,” he said. “‘Cept that big gem.”
She tensed.
“Lucky you, the Boss wants to see whatever you dug up. Shame, bet that’d fetch a fortune.”
“Big fortune,” Hook said. “Gonna be rich. Boss’ll pay us.”
“Shut it,” snarled Ust. “Go get the men up. We’re leaving.”
Avena’s skirts whisked as she crossed the red grass towards the surgery site. Ōbhin still knelt, rubbing dried blood off his black gloves. Beside him, the wheezing sound of Carstin’s breathing echoed. The bandit’s body had a pale cast to it. A thick bandage crossed his chest, another, soaked in blood, covered the stump of his leg. He was lucky Ni’mod’s flaming sword had half-cauterized the femoral artery. A glass tube thrust out the side to drain his lung. It went into a bottle half full of water. Air bubbled in the liquid. It was a one-way valve developed by Dualayn a decade earlier.
“You could take off those gloves,” Avena said as she knelt down by Carstin. “I imagine it would be easier than rubbing off the blood.”
“Would not be proper,” Ōbhin said, his eyes flicking to her face. His shadowed eyes tightened.
The man glanced back to his gloves. The darkness around him seemed to dim the light as he rubbed more dried blood off, the rusty flakes falling to the grass. It vexed her that pity stirred in her. She hated seeing pain. It was why she was here, helping Dualayn in his research. He’d invented the topaz jewelchine, like the one shattered by Ust earlier. They were miraculous but had limits with how much and what they could heal. They could only hold so much power, taking a day to fully recharge. Finding better ways to heal was vital.
It made the Recorder priceless. We can’t lose it.
“We have to place him in the wagon,” she said to Ōbhin. “With care. I’ll hold the valve if you can get one of your ruffians to help.”
“They’re not my ruffians,” he said, the Onderian in his accent rolling the R’s. A Tethyrian by way of Ondere? The country to the south had long been a thorn to Lothon.
“Stone,” Ōbhin called to a man as large as Ni’mod. She drew a deep breath against that pain. She’d known Ni’mod and felt she should mourn more for the man. He’d worked for Dualayn for nine years. She should feel more anger towards his killer, but . . .
Ni’mod had seemed more statue than man, like the flames burning in him had consumed the humanity out of him.
Stone, the big bandit, lumbered over, his face paling. “He’s not gonna bleed on me, is he?”
“You’re afraid of blood?” Avena asked, not hiding her scorn.
Stone shrugged. “Why I use a maul. I just break bones. Don’t hack ‘em apart like . . .” His eyes flicked to Ōbhin. “Well, just don’t like it, okay?”
“Just be gentle,” she told the giant. She grabbed the glass and cradled the stiff tubes, prepared to move them without breaking the connection. “Okay, lift.”
They hefted the blanket Carstin lay on, using it as a makeshift stretcher. She tightened her jaw, feeling Dualayn watching their progress. She couldn’t mess this up. When you chose to heal someone, you took responsibility for their life. For their care.
“Careful, careful,” she said.
“Bein’ careful, girly,” the big man grunted.
They crossed the red grass for the wagon, the other bandits gathering up the scattered possessions. She tried not to wince as her clothing was shoved into her traveling chest, one slip half-hanging out as the lid was slammed shut.
“Slow,” Ōbhin said. He shifted, his black gloves gripping the blood-stained blanket. “Let me get in.”
“Don’t jostle him,” Avena gasped as Ōbhin sat down on the wagon’s bed. He worked back, the leather jerkin he wore beneath his chainmail rasping.
“I won’t harm him,” Ōbhin said, the darkness lessening as he stared down at his friend. Life almost kindled in the Tethyrian’s dark eyes.
